MIss, Miss, Miss Prue—Mercy on me, marry and Amen: Why, what's become of the Child?—Why Miss, Miss Foresight—Sure she has not lock'd her self up in her Chamber, and gone to sleep, or to Prayers; Miss, Miss, I hear her—Come to your Father, Child: Open the Door—Open the Door Miss—I hear you cry husht—O Lord, who's there?

What's here to do?—O the Father! a Man with her!—Why, Miss I say, God's my Life, here's fine doings towards—O Lord, We're all undone—O you young Harlotry

Ods my Life, won't you open the Door? I'll come in the back way.

O Lord, she's coming—and she'll tell my Father, what shall I do now?

Pox take her; if she had staid two Minutes longer, I shou'd have wish'd for her coming.

O Dear, what shall I say? Tell me, Mr. Tattle, tell me a Lie.

There's no occasion for a Lie; I cou'd never tell a Lie to no purpose—But since we have done nothing, we must say nothing, I think. I hear her—I'll leave you together, and come off as you can.

You can't accuse me of Inconstancy; I never told you, that I lov'd you.

But I can accuse you of Uncertainty, for not telling me whether you did or no.

You mistake Indifference for Uncertainty; I never had Concern enough to ask my self the Question.

What, are you setting up for good Nature?

Only for the affectation of it, as the Women do for ill Nature.

Perswade your Friend, that it is all Affectation.

I shall receive no Benefit from the Opinion: For I know no effectual Difference between continued Affectation and Reality.

Scandal, are you in private Discourse, any thing of Secresie?

Yes, but I dare trust you; We were talking of Angelica's Love for Valentine; you won't speak of it.

No, no, not a Syllable—I know that's a Secret, for it's whisper'd every where.

Ha, ha, ha.

What is, Mr. Tattle? I heard you say something was whisper'd every where.

Your Love of Valentine.

How!

No, Madam, his Love for your Ladyship—Gad take me, I beg your Pardon—for I never heard a Word of your Ladyships Passion, till this instant.

My Passion! And who told you of my Passion, pray Sir?

Why, is the Devil in you? Did not I tell it you for a Secret?

Gadso; but I thought she might have been trusted with her own Affairs.

Is that your Discretion? trust a Woman with her self?

You say true, I beg your Pardon;—I'll bring all off—It was impossible, Madam, for me to imagine, that a Person of your Ladyship's Wit and Gallantry, could have so long receiv'd the passionate Adddresses of the accomplisht Valentine, and yet remain insensible; therefore you will pardon me, if from a just weight of his Merit, with your Ladyshpis good Judgment, I form'd the Ballance of a reciprocal Affection.

I dare swear you wrong him, it is his own—And Mr. Tattle only judges of the Success of others, from the Effects of his own Merit. For certainly Mr. Tattle was never deny'd any thing in his Life.

O Lord! yes indeed, Madam, several times.

I swear I don't think 'tis possible.

Yes, I vow and swear I have: Lord, Madam, I'm the most unfortunate Man in the World, and the most cruelly us'd by the Ladies.

Nay, now you're ungrateful.

No, I hope not—'tis as much Ingratitude to own some Favours, as to conceal others.

There, now it's out.

I don't understand you now. I thought you had never ask'd any thing, but what a Lady might modestly grant, and you confess.

So faith, your Business is done here; now you may go brag somewhere else.

Brag! O Heav'ns! Why, did I name any body?

No; I suppose that is not in your Power; but you wou'd if you cou'd, no doubt on't.

Not in my Power, Madam! What does your Ladyship mean, that I have no Womans Reputation in my Power?

Ouns, why you won't own it, will you?

Faith, Madam, you're in the right; no more I have, as I hope to be sav'd; I never had it in my Power to say any thing to a Lady's Prejudice in my Life—For as I was telling you Madam, I have been the most unsuccessful Creature living, in things of that nature; and never had the good Fortune to be trusted once with a Lady's Secret, not once.

No.

Not once, I dare answer for him.

And I'll answer for him; for I'm sure if he had, he wou'd have told me; I find, Madam, you don't know Mr. Tattle.

No indeed, Madam, you don't know me at all, I find: For sure my intimate Friends wou'd have known—

O pox, Scandal, that was too far put—Never have told Particulars, Madam. Perhaps I might have talk'd as of a Third Person—or have introduc'd an Amour of my own, in Conversation, by way of Novel: but never have explain'd Particulars.

But whence comes the Reputation of Mr. Tattle's Secresie, if he was never trusted?

Why thence it arises—The thing is proverbially spoken; but may be apply'd to him—As if we shou'd say in general Terms, He only is Secret who never was trusted; a Satyrical Proverb upon our Sex—There's another upon yours—As she is chaste, who was never ask'd the Question. That's all.

A couple of very civil Proverbs, truly: 'Tis hard to tell whether the Lady or Mr. Tattle be the more obliged to you. For you found her Vertue, upon the Backwardness of the Men; and his Secresie, upon the mistrust of the Women.

Gad, it's very true, Madam, I think we are oblig'd to acquit our selves—And for my part—But your Ladyship is to speak first—

Am I? Well, I freely confess I have resisted a great deal of Temptation.

And I Gad, I have given some Temptation that has not been resisted.

Good.

I cite Valentine here, to declare to the Court, how fruitless he has found his Endeavours, and to confess all his Sollicitations and my Denials.

I am ready to plead, Not guilty for you; and Guilty, for my self.

So, why this is fair, here's Demonstration with a Witness.

Well, my Witnesses are not present—But I confess I have had Favours from Persons—But as the Favours are numberless, so the Persons are nameless.

Pooh, pox, this proves nothing.

It was there, I suppose, you got the Nick-Name of the Great Turk.

True; I was call'd Turk-Tattle all over the Parish—The next Sunday all the Old Women kept their Daughters at home, and the Parson had not half his Congregation. He wou'd have brought me into the Spiritual Court, but I was reveng'd upon him, for he had a handsom Daughter whom I initiated into the Science. But I repented it afterwards, for it was talk'd of in Town—And a Lady of Quality that shall be nameless, in a raging Fit of Jealousie, came down in her Coach and Six Horses, and expos'd her self upon my Account; Gad, I was sorry for it with all my Heart—You know whom I mean—You know where we raffl'd—

Mum, Tattle.

'Sdeath, are not you asham'd?

O barbarous! I never heard so insolent a piece of Vanity—Fie, Mr. Tattle—I'll swear I could not have believ'd it—Is this your Secresie?

Gad so, the Heat of my Story carry'd me beyond my Discretion, as the Heat of the Lady's Passion hurry'd her beyond her Reputation—But I hope you don't know whom I mean; for there were a great many Ladies raffled—Pox on't, now could I bite off my Tongue.

No doubt on't; for then you'l tell us no more—Come, I'll recommend a Song to you upon the Hint of my two Proverbs, and I see one in the next Room that will sing it.

Pray sing the first Song in the last New Play.

Is Ben come? Odso, my Son Ben come? Odd, I'm glad on't: Where is he? I long to see him. Now, Mrs. Frail, you shall see my Son Ben—Body o'me, he's the Hopes of my Family—I han't seen him these Three Years—I warrant he's grown—Call him in, bid him make haste—I'm ready to cry for Joy.

Now Miss, you shall see your Husband.

Pish, he shall be none of my Husband.

Hush: Well he shan't, leave that to me—I'll beckon Mr. Tattle to us.

We are the Twin-Stars, and cannot shine in one Sphere; when he Rises I must Set—Besides, if I shou'd stay, I don't know but my Father in good Nature may press one to the immediate Signing the Deed of Conveyance of my Estate, and I'll deferr it as long as I can—Well, you'll come to a Resolution.

I can't. Resolution must come to me, or I shall never have one.

Come, Valentine, I'll go with you; I've something in my Head to communicate to you.

What, is my Son Valentine gone? What, is he sneak'd off, and would not see his Brother? There's an Unnatural Whelp! There's an ill natur'd Dog! What, were you here too, Madam, and could not keep him! Cou'd neither Love, nor Duty, nor Natural Affection oblige him. Odsbud, Madam, have no more to say to him; he is not worth your Consideration. The Rogue has not a Drachm of Generous Love about him: All Interest, all Interest; he's an undone Scoundrel, and courts your Estate: Body o' me, he does not care a Doit for your Person.

I'm pretty even with him, Sir Sampson; for if ever I cou'd have lik'd any thing in him, it shou'd have been his Estate too: But since that's gone, the Bait's off, and the naked Hook appears.

Odsbud, well spoken; and you are a Wiser Woman than I thought you were: For most young Women now-a-days are to be tempted with a naked Hook.

If I marry, Sir Sampson, I'm for a good Estate with any Man, and for any Man with a good Estate: Therefore if I were obliged to make a Choice, I declare I'd rather have you than your Son.

Faith and Troth you're a wise Woman, and I'm glad to hear you say so; I was afraid you were in Love with the Reprobate; Odd, I was sorry for you with all my Heart: Hang him, Mungrel; cast him off; you shall see the Rogue shew himself, and make Love to some desponding Cadua of Fourscore for Sustenance. Odd, I love to see a young Spend thrist forc'd to cling to an Old Woman for Support, like Ivy round a dead Oak: Faith I do; I love to see 'em hug and cotten together, like Down upon a Thistle.

Where's Father?

There, Sir, his back's toward you.

My Son Ben! bless thee my dear Boy; body o' me, thou art heartily welcome.

Thank you Father, and I'm glad to see you.

Odsbud, and I'm glad to see thee, kiss me Boy, kiss me again and again, dear Ben.

So, so, enough Father—Mess, I'de rather kiss these Gentlewomen.

And so thou shalt,—Mrs. Angelica, my Son Ben.

Forsooth an you please—

Nay Mistress, I'm not for dropping Anchor here; About Ship I faith—

Nay, and you too, my little Cock-boat—so—

Sir, you're welcome a-shore.

Thank you, thank you Friend.

Thou hast been many a weary League Ben, since I saw thee.

Ey, ey, been! Been far enough, an that be all—well Father, and how do all at home? How do's Brother Dick, and Brother Val?

Dick, body o' me, Dick has been dead these two Years; I writ you word, when you were at Legorne.

Mess, and that's true: marry I had forgot. Dick's dead as you say—well, and how? I have a many Questions to ask you; well, you be'nt Marry'd again, Father, be you?

No, I intend you shall Marry, Ben; I would not Marry for thy sake.

Nay, what do's that signifie?—an you Marry again—Why then, I'll go to Sea again, so there's one for t'other, an that be all—Pray don't let me be your hindrance; e'en Marry a God's Name an the wind sit that way. As for my part, may-hap I have no mind to Marry.

That wou'd be pity, such a Handsome Young Gentleman.

Handsome! he, he, he, nay forsooth, an you be for Joking, I'll Joke with you, for I love my jest, an the Ship were sinking, as we sayn at Sea. But I'll tell you why I don't much stand towards Matrimonie. I love to roam about from Port to Port, and from Land to Land: I could never abide to be Portbound as we call it: Now a man that is marry'd, has as it were, d'ee see, his seet in the Bilboes, and may hap may'nt get 'em out again when he wou'd.

Ben's a Wagg.

A man that is marri'd, d'ee see, is no more like another man, than a Galley-slave is like one of us free Sailors, he is chain'd to an Oar all his life; and may-hap forc'd to tug a leaky Vessel into the Bargain.

A very Wag, Ben's a very Wag; only a little rough, he wants a little Polishing.

Not at all; I like his humour mightily, it's plain and honest, I shou'd like such a humour in a Husband extreamly.

Say'n you so forsooth? Marry and I shou'd like such a handsome Gentlewoman for a Bed-fellow hugely, how say you Mistress, wou'd you like going to Sea? Mess you're a tight Vessel, and well rigg'd, an you were but as well Mann'd.

I shou'd not doubt that, if you were Master of me.

But I'll tell you one thing, an you come to Sea in a high Wind, or that Lady.—You mayn't carry so much Sail o'your Head—Top and Top-gallant by the Mess.

No, why so?

Why an you do, You may run the risk to be overset, and then you'll carry your Keels above Water, he, he, he.

I swear, Mr. Benjamin is the verriest Wag in nature; an absolute Sea-wit.

Nay, Ben has Parts, but as I told you before, they want a little Polishing: You must not take any thing ill, Madam.

No, I hope the Gentlewoman is not angry; I mean all in good part: For if I give a Jest, I'll take a Jest: And so forsooth you may be as free with me.

I thank you, Sir, I am not at all offended;—but methinks Sir Sampson, You shou'd leave him alone with his Mistress. Mr. Tattle, we must not hinder Lovers.

Well Miss, I have your promise.

Body o' me, Madam, you say true:—Look you Ben; this is your Mistress,—Come Miss, you must not be shamefac'd, we'll leave you together.

I can't abide to be left alone, mayn't my Cousin stay with me?

No, no. Come, let's away.

Look you Father, may-hap the young Woman may'nt take a liking to me.—

I warrant thee Boy, Come, come, we'll be gone; I'll venture that.

Come Mistress, will you please to sit down, for an you stand a stern a that'n, we shall never grapple together,—Come, I'll haule a Chair; there, an you please to sit, I'll sit by you.

You need not sit so near one, if you have any thing to say, I can hear you farther off, I an't deaf.

Why that's true as you say, nor I an't dumb, I can be heard as far as another,—I'll heave off to please you.

An we were a League asunder, I'de undertake to hold Discourse with you, an 'twere not a main high Wind indeed, and full in my Teeth. Look you forsooth, I am as it were, bound for the Land of Matrimony; 'tis a Voyage d'ee see that was none of my seeking, I was commanded by Father, and if you like of it, may-hap I may steer into your Harbour. How say you Mistress? the short of the thing is this, that if you like me, and I like you, we may chance to swing in a Hammock together.

I don't know what to say to you, nor I don't care to speak with you at all.

No, I'm sorry for that.—But pray why are you so scornful?

As long as one must not speak one's mind, one had better not speak at all, I think, and truly I won't tell a lie for the matter.

Nay, You say true in that, it's but a folly to lie: For to speak one thing, and to think just the contrary way; is as it were, to look one way, and to row another. Now, for my part d'ee see, I'm for carrying things above Board, I'm not for keeping any thing under Hatches,—so that if you ben't as willing as I, say so a God's name, there's no harm done; may-hap you may be shame-fac'd, some Maidens thof' they love a man well enough, yet they don't care to tell'n so to's face: If that's the Case, why silence gives consent.

But I'm sure it is not so, for I'll speak sooner than you should believe that; and I'll speak truth, tho' one should always tell a lie to a man; and I don't care, let my Father do what he will; I'm too big to be whipt, so I'll tell you plainly, I don't like you, nor love you at all, nor never will, that's more: So, there's your answer for you; and don't trouble me no more, you ugly thing.

Look you Young Woman, You may learn to give good words however. I spoke you fair d'ee see, and civil.—As for your Love or your liking, I don't value it of a Rope's end;—And may-hap I like you as little as you do me:—What I said was in Obedience to Father; Gad I fear a Whipping no more than you do. But I tell you one thing, if you shou'd give such Language at Sea, you'd have a Cat o' Nine-tails laid cross your Shoulders. Flesh who are you? You heard t'other handsome Young Woman speak civilly to me, of her own accord: Whatever you think of your self, Gad I don't think you are any more to compare to her, than a Cann of Small-beer to a Bowl of Punch.

Well, and there's a handsome Gentleman, and a fine Gentleman, and a sweet Gentleman, that was here that loves me, and I love him; and if he sees you speak to me any more, he'l thrash your Jacket for you, he will, you great Sea-calf.

What, do you mean that fair-Weather Spark that was here just now? Will he thrash my Jacket?—Let'n,—let'n,—But an he comes near me, may-hap I may giv'n a Salt Eel for's Supper, for all that. What do's Father mean to leave me alone as soon as I come home, with such a dirty dowdy.—Sea-calf? I an't Calf enough to lick your Chalk'd face, You Cheese-curd you,—Marry thee! Oons I'll Marry a Lapland-Witch as soon, and live upon selling of contrary Winds, and Wrack'd Vessels.

I won't be call'd Names, nor I won't be abus'd thus, so I won't.—If I were a man,—

—You durst not talk at this rate—No you durst nor, you stinking Tar-barrel.

They have quarrel'd just as we cou'd wish.

Tar-barrel? Let your Sweet-heart there call me so, if he'l take your part, Your Tom Essence, and I'll say something to him; Gad I'll lace his Musk-Doublet for him, I'll make him stink; he shall smell more like a Weasel than a Civet-Cat, afore I ha' done with 'en.

Bless me, what's the matter? Miss, what do's she cry?—Mr. Benjamin, what have you done to her?

Let her cry: The more she cries, the less she'll—she has been gathering foul weather in her Mouth, and now it rains out at her Eyes.

Come, Miss, come along with me, and tell me, poor Child.

Lord, what shall we do, there's my Brother Foresight, and Sir Sampson coming. Sister, do you take Miss down into the Parlour, and I'll carry Mr. Benjamin into my Chamber, for they must not know that they are fall'n out.—Come, Sir, will you venture your self with me?

Venture, Mess, and that I will, tho' 'twere to Sea in a Storm.

I left 'em together here; What are they gone? Ben's a brisk Boy: He has got her into a Corner, Father's own Son faith, he'l touzle her, and mouzle her: The Rogue's sharp set, coming from Sea, if he should not stay for saying Grace, old Foresight, but fall too without the help of a Parson, ha? Odd if he should I cou'd not be angry with him; twould be but like me, A Chip of the Old Block. Ha! thou'rt melancholly old Prognostication; As melancholly as if thou hadst spilt the Salt, or par'd thy Nails of a Sunday:—Come, Cheer up, look about thee: Look up old StarGazer. Now is he poring upon the Ground for a crooked Pin, or an old Horse-nail, with the head towards him.

With all my Heart.

At Ten a Clock, punctually at Ten.

To a Minute, to a Second; thou shall set thy Watch, and the Bridegroom shall observe it's Motions; they shall be married to a Minute, go to Bed to a Minute; and when the Alarm strikes, they shall keep time like the Figures of St. Dunstan's Clock, and Consummatum est shall ring all over the Parish.

Sir Sampson, sad News.

Bless us!

Why, what's the matter?

Can't you guess at what ought to afflict you and him, and all of us, more than any thing else.

Body o'me, I don't know any universal Grievance, but a new Tax, and the loss of the Canary Fleet. Without Popery shou'd be landed in the West, or the French Fleet were at Anchor at Blackwall.

No. Undoubtedly Mr. Foresight knew all this, and might have prevented it.

'Tis no Earthquake!

No, not yet; nor Whirlwind. But we don't know what it may come to—But it has had a Consequence already that touches us all.

Why, body o'me, out with't.

Something has appear'd to your Son Valentine—He's gone to Bed upon't, and very ill—He speaks little, yet says he has a World to say. Asks for his Father and the Wise Foresight; talks of Raymond Lully, and the Ghost of Lilly. He has Secrets to impart I suppose to you two. I can get nothing out of him but Sighs. He desires he may see you in the Morning, but would not be disturb'd to Night, because he has some Business to do in a Dream.

Hoity toity, What have I to do with his Dreams or his Divination—Body o' me, this is a Trick to defer Signing the Conveyance. I warrant the Devil will tell him in a Dream, that he must not part with his Estate: But I'll bring him a Parson to tell him, that the Devil's a Liar—Or if that won't do, I'll bring a Lawyer that shall out-lie the Devil. And so I'll try whether my Black-Guard or his shall get the better of the Day.

Alas, Mr. Foresight, I'm afraid all is not right—You are a Wise Man, and a Conscientious Man; a Searcher into Obscurity and Futurity; and if you commit an Error, it is with a great deal of Consideration, and Discretion, and Caution—

Ah, good Mr. Scandal—

Nay, nay, 'tis manifest; I do not flatter you—But Sir Sampson is hasty, very hasty;—I'm afraid he is not scrupulous enough, Mr. Foresight—He has been wicked, and Heav'n grant he may mean well in his Assair with you—But my Mind gives me, these things cannot be wholly insignificant. You are wise, and shou'd not be over-reach'd, methinks you shou'd not—

Alas, Mr. Scandal—Humanum est errare.

You say true, Man will err; meer Man will err—but you are something more—There have been wise Men; but they were such as you—Men who consulted the Stars, and were Observers of Omens—Salomon was wise, but how?—by his Judgment in Astrology—So says Pineda in his Third Book and Eighth Chapter—

You are learn'd, Mr. Scandal—

A Trifler—but a Lover of Art—And the Wise Men of the East ow'd their Instruction to a Star, which is rightly observ'd by Gregory the Great in favour of Astrology! And Albertus Magnus makes it the most valuable Science, Because, says he, it teaches us to consider the Causation of Causes, in the Causes of things.

I protest I honour you, Mr. Scandal—I did not think you had been read in these matters—Few Young Men are inclin'd—

I thank my Stars that have inclin'd me—But I fear this Marriage and making over this Estate, this transferring of a rightful Inheritance, will bring Judgments upon us. I prophesie it, and I wou'd not have the Fate of Cassandra, not to be believ'd. Valentine is disturb'd, what can be the Cause of that? And Sir Sampson is hurry'd on by an unusual Violence—I fear he does not act wholly from himself; methinks he does not look as he used to do.

Come, come, Mr. Foresight, let not the Prospect of Worldly Lucre carry you beyond your Judgment, nor against your Conscience—You are not satisfy'd that you act justly.

How!

You are not satisfy'd, I say—I am loath to discourage you—But it is palpable that you are not satisfy'd.

How does it appear, Mr. Scandal, I think I am very well satisfy'd.

Either you suffer your self to deceive your self; or you do not know your self.

Pray explain your self.

Do you sleep well o'nights?

Very well.

Are you certain? You do not look so.

I am in Health, I think.

So was Valentine this Morning; and look'd just so.

How! Am I alter'd any way? I don't perceive it.

That may be, but your Beard is longer than it was two Hours ago.

Indeed! bless me.

Husband, will you go to Bed? It's Ten a Clock. Mr. Scandal, your Servant—

Pox on her, she has interrupted my Design—But I must work her into the Project. You keep early Hours, Madam.

Mr. Foresight is punctual, we sit up after him.

My Dear, pray lend me your Glass, your little Lookingglass.

Pray lend it him, Madam—I'll tell you the reason.

My Passion for you is grown so violent—that I am no longer Master of my self—I was interrupted in the morning, when you had Charity enough to give me your Attention, and I had Hopes of finding another opportunity of explaining my self to you—but was disappointed all this day; and the Uneasiness that has attended me ever since, brings me now hither at this unseasonable hour—

Do, I'll dye a Martyr, rather than disclaim my Passion. But come a little farther this way, and I'll tell you what Project I had to get him out of the way; that I might have an opportunity of waiting upon you.

I do not see any Revolution here;—Methinks I look with a serene and benign aspect—pale, a little pale—but the Roses of these Cheeks have been gather'd many Years;—ha! I do not like that suddain flushing—gone already!—hem, hem, hem! faintish. My Heart is pretty good; yet it beats; and my Pulses ha!—I have none—Mercy on me—hum—Yes, here they are—Gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, hey! Whither will they hurry me?—Now they're gone again—And now I'm faint again; and pale again, and hem! and my hem!—breath, hem!—grows short; hem! hem! he, he, hem!

It takes, pursue it in the name of Love and Pleasure.

How do you do, Mr. Foresight?

Hum, not so well as I thought I was. Lend me your Hand.

Look you there now—Your Lady says your Sleep has been unquiet of late.

Very likely.

O' mighty restless, but I was afraid to tell him so—He has been subject to Talking and Starting.

And did not use to be so.

Never, never; till within these three Nights; I cannot say that he has once broken my Rest, since we have been Marry'd.

I will go to Bed.

Do so, Mr. Foresight, and say your Pray'rs;—He looks better than he did.

Nurse, Nurse!

Do you think so, Mr. Scandal?

Yes, yes, I hope this will be gone by Morning, taking it in time.—

I hope so.

Nurse; your Master is not well; put him to Bed.

I hope you will be able to see Valentine in the Morning,—you had best take a little Diacodion and Cowslip water, and lye upon your back, may be you may dream.

I thank you Mr. Scandal, I will—Nurse, let me have a Watch-light, and lay the Crums of Comfort by me.—

Yes, Sir.

And—hem, hem! I am very faint.—

No, no, you look much better.

Do I? And d'ye hear—bring me, let me see—within a quarter of Twelve—hem—he, hem!—just upon the turning of the Tide, bring me the Urinal;—And I hope, neither the Lord of my Ascendant, nor the Moon will be combust; and then I may do well.

I hope so—Leave that to me; I will erect a Scheme; and I hope I shall find both Sol and Venus in the sixth House.

I thank you, Mr. Scandal, indeed that wou'd be a great Comfort to me. Hem, hem! good Night.

Good Night, good Mr. Foresight;—and I hope Mars and Venus will be in Conjunction;—while your Wife and I are together.

Well; and what use do you hope to make of this Project? You don't think, that you are ever-like to succeed in your design upon me.

Yes, Faith I do; I have a better Opinion both of you and my self, than to despair.

Did you ever hear such a Toad—heark'ee Devil; do you think any Woman Honest?

Yes, several, very honest;—they'll cheat a little at Cards, sometimes, but that's nothing.

Pshaw! but Vertuous, I mean.

Yes, Faith, I believe some Women are Vertuous too; but 'tis as I believe some Men are Valiant, thro' fear—For why shou'd a Man court Danger, or a Woman shun Pleasure.

Why, Honour is a publick Enemy; and Conscience a Domestick Thief; and he that wou'd secure his Pleasure, must pay a Tribute to one, and go halves with the t'other. As for Honour, that you have secur'd, for you have purchas'd a perpetual opportunity for Pleasure.

An Opportunity for Pleasure!

Aye, your Husband, a Husband is an opportunity for Pleasure, so you have taken care of Honour, and 'tis the least I can do to take care of Conscience.

And so you think we are free for one another?

Yes Faith, I think so; I love to speak my mind.

Why then I'll speak my mind. Now as to this Affair between you and me. Here you make love to me; why, I'll confess it does not displease me. Your Person is well enough, and your Understanding is not a-miss.

I have no great Opinion of my self; yet I think, I'm neither Deform'd, nor a Fool.

But you have a Villanous Character; you are a Libertine in Speech, as well as Practice.

Come, I know what you wou'd say,—you think it more dangerous to be seen in Conversation with me, than to allow some other Men the last Favour; you mistake, the liberty I take in Talking, is purely affected, for the Service of your Sex. He that first cries out stop Thief, is often he that has stolen the Treasure. I am a Jugler, that act by Confederacy; and if you please, we'll put a Trick upon the world.

Aye; but you are such an universal Jugler,—that I'm afraid you have a great many Confederates.

Faith, I'm sound.

O, fie—I'll Swear you're Impudent.

I'll Swear your Handsome.

Pish, you'd tell me so, tho' you did not think so.

And you'd think so, tho' I should not tell you so: And now I think we know one another pretty well.

O Lord, who's here?

Mess, I love to speak my mind—Father has nothing to do with me—Nay, I can't say that neither; he has something to do with me. But what do's that signifie? If so be, that I ben't minded to be steer'd by him; 'tis as tho'f he should strive against Wind and Tyde.

Aye, but my Dear, we must keep it secret, till the Estate be setled; for you know, Marrying without an Estate, is like Sailing in a Ship without Ballast.

He, he, he; why that's true; just so for all the World it is indeed, as like as two Cable Ropes.

And tho' I have a good Portion; you know one wou'd not venture all in one bottom.

Why that's true again; for may-hap one bottom may spring a Leak. You have hit it indeed, Mess you've nick'd the Channel.

Well, but if you shou'd forsake me after all, you'd break my Heart.

Break your Heart? I'de rather the Mary-gold shou'd break her Cable in a storm, as well as I love her. Flesh, you don't think I'm false-hearted, like a Land-man. A Sailer will be honest, tho'f may-hap he has never a Penny of Mony in his Pocket—May-hap I may not have so fair a Face, as a Citizen or a Courtier; but for all that, I've as good Blood in my Veins, and a Heart as sound as a Bisket.

And will you love me always?

Nay, an I love once, I'll stick like pitch; I'll tell you that. Come, I'll sing you a Song of a Sailor.

Hold, there's my Sister, I'll call her to hear it.

Well; I won't go to Bed to my Husband to Night; because I'll retire to my own Chamber, and think of what you have said.

Well; You'll give me leave to wait upon you to your Chamber-door; and leave you my last Instructions?

Hold, here's my Sister coming toward us.

If it won't interrupt you, I'll entertain you with a Song.

I have heard of her.

If some of our Crew that came to see me, are not gone; you shall see, that we Sailors can Dance sometimes, as well as other Folks.

I warrant that brings 'em, an' they be within hearing.

Oh here they be—And Fiddles along with 'em; come, my Lads, let's have a round, and I'll make one.

We're merry Folk, we Sailors, we han't much to care for. Thus we live at Sea; eat Bisket, and drink Flip; put on a clean Shirt once a Quarter—Come home and lie with our Landladies once a Year, get rid of a little Mony; and then put off with the next fair wind. How de'e like us?

O' you are the happiest, merriest Men alive.

We're beholding to Mr. Benjamin for this Entertainment.

I believe it's late.

Why, forsooth, an you think so, you had best go to Bed. For my part, I mean to toss a Can, and remember my Sweet-Heart, a-fore I turn in; may-hap I may dream of her.

Mr. Scandal, you had best go to Bed and Dream too.

Why Faith, I have a good lively Imagination; and can Dream as much to the purpose as another, if I set about it: But Dreaming is the poor retreat of a lazy, hopeless, and imperfect Lover; 'tis the last glimpse of Love to wornout Sinners, and the faint dawning of a Bliss to wishing Girls, and growing Boys. There's nought but willing, waking Love, that can Make Blest the Ripen'd Maid, and Finish'd Man.

WELL, Is your Master ready; do's he look madly, and talk madly?

Yes, Sir; you need make no great doubt of that; he that was so near turning Poet yesterday morning, can't be much to seek in playing the Madman to day.

Would he have Angelica acquainted with the Reason of his design?

No, Sir, not yet;—He has a mind to try, whether his playing the Madman, won't make her play the Fool, and fall in Love with him; or at least own that she has lov'd him all this while, and conceal'd it.

I saw her take Coach just now with her Maid; and think I heard her bid the Coach-man drive hither.

Like enough, Sir, for I told her Maid this morning, my Master was run stark mad only for Love of her Mistress; I hear a Coach stop; if it should be she, Sir, I believe he would not see her, till he hears how she takes it.

Well, I'll try her—'tis she, here she comes.

Mr. Scandal, I suppose you don't think it a Novelty, to see a Woman visit a Man at his own Lodgings in a morning.

Not upon a kind occasion, Madam. But when a Lady comes Tyrannically to insult a ruin'd Lover, and make manifest the cruel Triumphs of her Beauty; the barbarity of it, something surprizes me.

I don't like Raillery from a serious Face—pray tell me what is the matter.

How d'ye mean, mad?

Why faith, Madam, he's mad for want of his Wits, just as he was for want of Money; his Head is e'en as light as his Pockets; and any body that has a mind to a bad Bargain, can't do better than to beg him for his Estate.

If you speak Truth, your endeavouring at Wit is very unseasonable—

She's concern'd, and loves him.

Mr. Scandal, you can't think me guilty of so much Inhumanity, as not to be concern'd for a Man I must own my self oblig'd to—pray tell me truth.

Faith, Madam, I wish telling a Lie would mend the matter. But this is no new effect of an unsuccessful Passion.

I know not what to think—Yet I shou'd be vext to have a trick put upon me—May I not see him?

I'm afraid the Physician is not willing you shou'd see him yet—Ieremy, go in and enquire.

Ha! I saw him wink and smile—I fancy 'tis a trick—I'll try—I would disguise to all the World a Failing, which I must own to you—I fear my Happiness depends upon the recovery of Valentine. Therefore I conjure you, as you are his Friend, and as you have Compassion upon one fearful of Affliction, to tell me what I am to hope for—I cannot speak—But you may tell me, tell me, for you know what I wou'd ask?

So, this is pretty plain—Be not too much concern'd, Madam; I hope his Condition is not desperate: An Acknowledgment of Love from you, perhaps, may work a Cure; as the fear of your Aversion occasion'd his Distemper.

Say you so; nay, then I'm convinc'd: And if I don't play Trick for Trick, may I never taste the Pleasure of Revenge—Acknowledgment of Love! I find you have mistaken my Compassion, and think me guilty of a Weakness I am a Stranger to. But I have too much Sincerity to deceive you, and too much Charity to suffer him to be deluded with vain Hopes. Good Nature and Humanity oblige me to be concern'd for him; but to Love is neither in my Power nor Inclination; and if he can't be cur'd without I suck the Poyson from his Wounds, I'm afraid he won't recover his Senses till I lose mine.

Hey, brave Woman, I faith—Won't you see him then, if he desire it?

What signifie a Madman's Desires? Besides, 'twou'd make me uneasie—If I don't see him, perhaps my Concern for him may lessen—If I forget him, 'tis no more than he has done by himself: and now the Surprize is over, methinks I am not half so sorry for him as I was—

So, faith good Nature works a-pace; you were confessing just now an Obligation to his Love.

But I have consider'd that Passions are unreasonable and involuntary; if he loves, he can't help it; and if I don't love, I can't help it; no more than he can help his being a Man, or I my being a Woman; or no more than I can help my want of Inclination to stay longer here—Come, Ienny.

Humh!—An admirable Composition, faith, this same Womankind.

What, is she gone, Sir?

Gone; why she was never here, nor any where else; nor I don't know her if I see her; nor you neither.

Good lack! What's the matter now? Are any more of us to be mad? Why, Sir, my Master longs to see her; and is almost mad in good earnest, with the Joyful News of her being here.

We are all under a mistake—Ask no Questions, for I can't resolve you; but I'll inform your Master. In the mean time, if our Project succeed no better with his Father, than it does with his Mistress, he may descend from his Exaltation of madness into the road of common Sense, and be content only to be made a Fool with other reasonable People. I hear Sir Sampson, you know your Cue; I'll to your Master.

D'ye see, Mr. Buckruin, here's the Paper sign'd with his own Hand.

Good, Sir. And the Conveyance is ready drawn in this Box, if he be ready to sign and seal.

Ready, body o' me, he must be ready; his Shamsickness shan't excuse him—O, here's his Scoundrel. Sirrah, where's your Master?

Ah, Sir, he's quite gone.

Gone! What, he is not dead?

No, Sir, not dead.

What, is he gone out of Town, run away, ha! has he trick't me? speak, Varlet.

No, no, Sir; he's safe enough, Sir, an he were but as sound, poor Gentleman. He is indeed here, Sir, and not here, Sir.

Hey day, Rascal, do you banter me? Sirrah, d'ye banter me—Speak Sirrah, where is he, for I will find him.

Would you could, Sir; for he has lost himself. Indeed, Sir, I have a most broke my Heart about him—I can't refrain Tears when I think of him, Sir; I'm as melancholy for him as a Passing-Bell, Sir; or a Horse in a Pound.

A Pox confound your Similitudes, Sir—Speak to be understood, and tell me in plain Terms what the matter is with him, or I'll crack your Fools Skull.

Ah, you've hit it, Sir; that's the matter with him, Sir; his Skull's crack'd, poor Gentleman; he's stark mad, Sir.

Mad!

What, is he Non Compos?

Quite Non Compos, Sir.

Why then all's obliterated, Sir Sampson, if he be Non Compos mentis, his Act and Deed will be of no effect, it is not good in Law.

Oo'ns, I won't believe it; let me see him, Sir—Mad, I'll make him find his Senses.

Mr. Scandal is with him, Sir; I'll knock at the Door.

Ha! who's that?

For Heav'ns sake softly, Sir, and gently; don't provoke him.

Answer me; Who is that? and that?

Gads bobs, does he not know me? Is he mischievous? I'll speak gently——Val, Val, do'st thou not know me. Boy? Not know thy own Father, Val! I am thy own Father, and this is honest Brief Buckram the Lawyer.

It may be so—I did not know you—the World is full—There are People that we do know, and People that we do not know; and yet the Sun shines upon all alike—There are Fathers that have many Children; and there are Children that have many Fathers—'tis strange! But I am Truth, and corne to give the World the Lie.

Body o' me, I know not what to say to him.

Why, does that Lawyer wear black?—Does he carry his Conscience without side?—Lawyer, what art thou? Dost thou know me?

O Lord, what must I say?—Yes, Sir.

Thou liest, for I am Truth. 'Tis hard I cannot get a Livelyhood amongst you. I have been sworn out of Westminster-Hall the first Day of every Term—Let me see—No matter how long—But I'll tell you one thing; it's a Question that would puzzle an Arithmetician, if you should ask him, whether the Bible saves more Souls in Westminster-Abby, or damns more in Westminster-Hall: For my part, I am Truth, and can't tell; I have very few Acquaintance.

Body o' me, he talks sensibly in his madness—Has he no Intervals?

Very short, Sir.

Sir, I can do you no Service while he's in this Condition: Here's your Paper, Sir—He may do me a mischief if I stay—The Conveyance is ready, Sir. If he recover his Senses.

Hold, hold, don't you go yet.

You'd better let him go, Sir; and send for him if there be occasion; for I fancy his Presence provokes him more.

He recovers—bless thee, Val—How do'st thou do, Boy?

Thank you, Sir, pretty well—I have been a little out of Order; won't you please to sit, Sir?

Ay, boy—Come, thou shalt sit down by me.

Sir, 'tis my Duty to wait.

No, no, come, come, sit you down, honest Val: How do'st thou do? let me feel thy Pulse—Oh, pretty well now, Val: Body o' me, I was sorry to see thee indisposed: But I'm glad thou'rt better, honest Val.

I thank you, Sir.

Miracle! the Monster grows loving.

Let me feel thy Hand again, Val: it does not shake—I believe thou can'st write, Val: Ha, boy? Thou can'st write thy Name, Val?—Ieremy, step and overtake Mr. Buckram, bid him make haste back with the Conveyance—quick—quick

That ever I shou'd suspect such a Heathen of any Remorse!

Do'st thou know this Paper, Val: I know thou'rt honest, and wil't perform Articles.

Pray let me see it, Sir. You hold it so far off, that I can't tell whether I know it or no.

See it, boy? Aye, aye, why thou do'st see it—'tis thy own Hand, Val. Why, let me see, I can read it as plain as can be: Look you here reads The Condition of this Obligation—Look you, as plain as can be, so it begins—And then at the bottom—As witness my Hand, Ualentine Legend, in great Letters. Why, 'tis as plain as the Nose in one's Face: What, are my Eyes better than thine? I believe I can read it farther off yet—let me see.

Will you please to let me hold it, Sir?

What, is my bad Genius here again! Oh no, 'tis the Lawyer with an itching Palm; and he's come to be scratch'd—My Nails are not long enough—Let me have a Pair of Red hot Tongues quickly, quickly, and you shall see me act St. Dunstan, and lead the Devil by the Nose.

O Lord, let me be gone; I'll not venture my self with a Madman.

Ha, ha, ha; you need not run so fast, Honesty will not overtake you—Ha, ha, ha, the Rogue found me out to be in Forma Pauperis presently.

Oo'ns! What a Vexation is here! I know not what to do, or say, nor which way to go.

Who's that, that's out of his Way?—I am Truth, and can set him right—Hearkee, Friend, the straight Road is the worst way you can go—He that follows his Nose always, will very often be led into a Stink. Probatum est. But what are you for? Religion or Politicks? There's a couple of Topicks for you, no more like one another than Oyl and Vinegar; and yet those two beaten together by a State-Cook, make Sauce for the whole Nation.

What the Devil had I to do, ever to beget Sons? Why did I ever marry?

Because thou wer't a Monster; old Boy?—The two greatest Monsters in the World are a Man and a Woman? what's thy Opinion?

Why, my Opinion is, that those two Monsters join'd together, make yet a greater, that's a Man and his Wife.

A ha! Old Truepenny, say'st thou so? thou hast nick'd it—But its wonderful strange, Ieremy!

That Gray Hairs shou'd cover a Green Head—and I make a Fool of my Father.

What's here! Erra Pater? or a bearded Sybil? If Prophecy comes, Truth must give place.

What says he? What, did he prophesie? Ha, Sir Sampson, bless us! How are we?

Are we? Ah Pox o'your Prognostication—Why, we are Fools as we use to be—Oo'ns, that you cou'd not foresee that the Moon wou'd predominate, and my Son be mad—Where's your Oppositions, your Trines, and your Quadrates?—What did your Cardan and your Ptolomee tell you? Your Messahalah and your Longomontanus, your Harmony of Chiromancy with Astrology. Ah! pox on't, that I that know the World, and Men and Manners, that don't believe a Syllable in the Sky and Stars, and Sun and Almanacks, and Trash, should be directed by a Dreamer, an Omen-hunter, and defer Business in Expectation of a lucky Hour. When, body o' me, there never was a lucky Hour after the first opportunity.

Ah, Sir Sampson, Heav'n help your Head—This is none of your lucky Hour; Nemo omnibus horis sapit. What, is he gone, and in contempt of Science! Ill Stars and unconverted Ignorance attend him.

You must excuse his Passion, Mr. Foresight; for he has been heartily vex'd—His Son is Non compos mentis, and thereby incapable of making any Conveyance in Law; so that all his measures are disappointed.

Ha! say you so?

What, has my Sea-Lover lost his Anchor of Hope then?

Oh Sister, what will you do with him?

Do with him, send him to Sea again in the next foul Weather—He's us'd to an inconstant Element, and won't be surpriz'd to see the Tide turn'd.

Wherein was I mistaken, not to foresee this?

What do you mean? I don't understand you.

Hush, softly—the Pleasures of last Night, my Dear, too considerable to he forgot so soon.

Last Night! and what wou'd your Impudence infer from last night? last Night was like the Night before, I think.

'S'death do you make no difference between me and your Husband?

Not much,—he's superstitious; and you are mad in my opinion.

You make me mad—You are not serious—Pray recollect your self.

O yes, now I remember, you were very impertinent and impudent,—and would have come to Bed to me.

And did not?

Did not! with that face can you ask the Question?

This I have heard of before, but never believ'd. I have been told she had that admirable quality of forgetting to a man's face in the morning, that she had layn with him all night, and denying favours with more impudence, than she cou'd grant 'em.—Madam, I'm your humble Servant, and honour you.—You look pretty well, Mr. Foresight;—How did you rest last night?

Truly Mr. Scandal, I was so taken up with broken Dreams and distracted Visions, that I remember little.

'Twas a very forgetting Night.—But would you not talk with Valentine, perhaps you may understand him; I'm apt to believe there is something mysterious in his Discourses, and sometimes rather think him inspir'd than mad.

You speak with singular good Judgment, Mr. Scandal, truly,—I am inclining to your Turkish opinion in this matter, and do reverence a man whom the vulgar think mad. Let us go in to him.

Sister, do you stay with them; I'll find out my Lover, and give him his discharge, and come to you. O' my Conscience here he comes.

All mad, I think—Flesh, I believe all the Calentures of the Sea are come ashore, for my part.

Mr. Benjamin in Choler!

No, I'm pleas'd well enough, now I have found you,—Mess, I've had such a Hurricane upon your account yonder.—

My account, pray what's the matter?

Why, Father came and found me squabling with you chitty fac'd thing, as he would have me marry,—so he ask'd what was the matter.—He ask'd in a surly sort of a way—(It seems Brother Val is gone mad, and so that put'n into a passion; but what did I know that, what's that to me?)—So he ask'd in a surly sort of manner,—and Gad I answer'd 'n as surlily,—What thof' he be my Father, I an't bound Prentice to 'en:—so faith I told'n in plain terms, if I were minded to marry, I'de marry to please my self, not him; and for the Young Woman that he provided for me, I thought it more fitting for her to learn her Sampler, and make Dirt-pies, than to look after a Husband; for my part I was none of her man.—I had another Voyage to make, let him take it as he will.

So then you intend to go to Sea again?

Nay, nay, my mind run upon you,—but I wou'd not tell him so much.—So he said he'd make my heart ake; and if so be that he cou'd get a Woman to his mind, he'd marry himself. Gad, says I, an you play the fool and marry at these years, there's more danger of your head's aking than my heart.—He was woundy angry when I gav'n that wipe.—He had 'nt a word to say, and so I left'n, and the Green Girl together;—May hap the Bee may bite, and he'l marry her himself, with all my heart.

And were you this undutiful and graceless Wretch to your Father?

Then why was he graceless first,—if I am undutiful and Graceless, why did he beget me so? I did not get my self.

O Impiety! how have I been mistaken! what an inhumane merciless Creature have I set my heart upon? O I am happy to have discover'd the Shelves and Quicksands that lurk beneath that faithless smiling face.

O see me no more,—for thou wert born amongst Rocks, suckl'd by Whales, Cradled in a Tempest, and whistled to by Winds; and thou art come forth with Finns and Scales, and three rows of Teeth, a most outragious Fish of prey.

O Lord, O Lord, she's mad, poor Young Woman, Love has turn'd her senses, her Brain is quite overset. Well-a-day, how shall I do to set her to rights.

No, no, I am not mad Monster, I am wise enough to find you out.—Had'st thou the Impudence to aspire at being a Husband with that stubborn and disobedient temper?—You that know not how to submit to a Father, presume to have a sufficient stock of Duty to undergo a Wife? I should have been finely fobb'd indeed, very finely fobb'd.

Hearkee forsooth; If so be that you are in your right senses, d'ee see; for ought as I perceive I'm like to be finely fobb'd,—if I have got anger here upon your account, and you are tack'd about already.—What d'ee mean, after all your fair speeches, and stroaking my Cheeks, and Kissing and Hugging, what wou'd you sheer off so? wou'd you, and leave me aground?

No, I'll leave you a-drift, and go which way you will.

What, are you false hearted then?

Only the Wind's chang'd.

More shame for you,—the Wind's chang'd?—it's an ill Wind blows no body good,—may-hap I have good riddance on you, if these be your Tricks,—What d'ee mean all this while, to make a fool of me?

Any fool, but a Husband.

Husband! Gad I wou'd not be your Husband, if you wou'd have me; now I know your mind, thof' you had your weight in Gold and Jewels, and thof' I lov'd you never so well.

Why canst thou love, Porpoise?

No matter what I can do? don't call Names,—I don't love You so well as to bear that, whatever I did,—I'm glad you shew your self, Mistress:—Let them marry you, as don't know you:—Gad I know you too well, by sad experience;—I believe he that marries you will go to Sea in a Hen-peck'd Frigat.—I believe that, Young Woman—and may-hap may come to an Anchor at Cuckolds-point; so there's a dash for you, take it as you will, may-hap you may holla after me when I won't come too.

Ha, ha, ha, no doubt on't.— My true Love is gone to Sea.—

O Sister, had you come a minute sooner, you would have seen the Resolution of a Lover,—Honest Tarr and I are parted;—and with the same indifference that we met:—O' my life I am half vex'd at the insensibility of a Brute that I despis'd.

What then, he bore it most Heroically?

Most Tyrannically,—for you see he has got the start of me; and I the poor forsaken Maid am left complaining on the Shore. But I'll tell you a hint that he has given me; Sir Sampson is enrag'd, and talks desperately of committing Matrimony himself.—If he has a mind to throw himself away, he can't do it more effectually than upon me, if we could bring it about.

Oh hang him old Fox, he's too cunning, besides he hates both you and me.—But I have a project in my head for you, and I have gone a good way towards it. I have almost made a Bargain with Ieremy, Valentine's man, to sell his Master to us.

Sell him, how?

Valentine raves upon Angelica, and took me for her, and Ieremy says will take any body for her that he imposes on him.—Now I have promis'd him Mountains; if in one of his mad fits he will bring you to him in her stead, and get you married together, and put to Bed together; and after Consummation, Girl, there's no revoking. And if he should recover his Senses, he'll be glad at least to make you a good Settlement.—Here they come, stand aside a little, and tell me how you like the design.

And have you given your Master a hint of their Plot upon him?

Yes, Sir; he says he'll favour it, and mistake her for Angelica.

It may make sport.

Mercy on us!

Husht—Interrupt me not—I'll whisper Prediction to thee, and thou shalt Prophesie;—I am Truth, and can teach thy Tongue a new Trick,—I have told thee what's past,—Now I tell what's to come;—Dost thou know what will happen to morrow?—Answer me not—for I will tell thee. To morrow, Knaves will thrive thro' craft, and Fools thro' Fortune; and Honesty will go as it did, Frost-nip't in a Summer suit. Ask me Questions concerning to morrow?

Ask him, Mr. Foresight.

Pray what will be done at Court?

Scandal will tell you;—I am Truth, I never come there.

In the City?

Oh, Prayers will be said in empty Churches, at the usual Hours. Yet you will see such Zealous Faces behind Counters, as if Religion were to be sold in every Shop. Oh things will go methodically in the City, the Clocks will strike Twelve at Noon, and the Horn'd Herd Buz in the Exchange at Two. Wives and Husbands will drive distinct Trades, and Care and Pleasure separately Occupy the Family. Coffee-Houses will be full of Smoak and Stratagem. And the cropt Prentice, that sweeps his Master's Shop in the morning, may ten to one, dirty his Sheets before Night. But there are two things that you will see very strange; which are Wanton Wives, with their Legs at liberty, and Tame Cuckolds, with Chains about their Necks. But hold, I must examine you before I go further; You look suspiciously. Are you a Husband?

I am Married.

Poor Creature! Is your Wife of Covent-Garden Parish?

Alas, poor Man; his Eyes are sunk, and his Hands shrivell'd; his Legs dwindl'd, and his back bow'd, Pray, pray, for a Metamorphosis—Change thy Shape, and shake off Age; get thee Medea's Kettle, and be boil'd a-new, come forth with lab'ring Callous Hands, a Chine of Steel, and Atlas Shoulders. Let Taliacotius trim the Calves of Twenty Chairmen, and make thee Pedestals to stand erect upon, and look Matrimony in the face. Ha, ha, ha! That a Man shou'd have a Stomach to a Wedding Supper, when the Pidgeons ought rather to be laid to his feet, ha, ha, ha.

His Frenzy is very high now, Mr. Scandal.

I believe it is a Spring Tide.

Very likely truly; You understand these Matters—Mr. Scandal, I shall be very glad to confer with you about these things which he has utter'd.—His Sayings are very Mysterious and Hieroglyphical.

Oh, why would Angelica be absent from my Eyes so long?

She's here, Sir.

Now, Sister.

O Lord, what must I say?

Humour him, Madam, by all means.

Where is she? Oh I see her—she comes, like Riches, Health, and Liberty at once, to a despairing, starving, and abandon'd Wretch.

Oh welcome, welcome.

How de'e you, Sir? Can I serve you?

Heark'ee;—I have a Secret to tell you—Endymion and the Moon shall meet us upon Mount Latmos, and we'll be Marry'd in the dead of Night.—But say not a word. Hymen shall put his Torch into a dark Lanthorn, that it may be secret; and Iuno shall give her Peacock Poppy-water, that he may fold his Ogling Tail, and Argos's hundred Eyes be shut, ha? No body shall know, but Ieremy.

No, no, we'll keep it secret, it shall be done presently.

The sooner the better—Ieremy, come hither—closer—that none may over-hear us;—Ieremy, I can tell you News;— Angelica is turn'd Nun; and I am turning Fryar, and yet we'll Marry one another in spite of the Pope—Get me a Coul and Beads, that I may play my part,—For she'll meet me Two Hours hence in black and white, and a long Veil to cover the Project, and we won't see one anothers Faces, till we have done something to be asham'd of; and then we'll blush once for all.

I'll take care, and—

Whisper.

Nay, Mr. Tattle, If you make Love to me, you spoil my design, for I intended to make you my Confident.

But, Madam, to throw away your Person, such a Person! and such a Fortune, on a Madman!

I never lov'd him till he was Mad; but don't tell any body so.

How's this! Tattle making Love to Angelica!

Tell, Madam! alas you don't know me—I have much ado to tell your Ladyship, how long I have been in Love with you—but encourag'd by the impossibility of Valentine's making any more Addresses to you, I have ventur'd to declare the very inmost Passion of my Heart. Oh, Madam, look upon us both. There you see the ruins of a poor decay'd Creature—Here, a compleat and lively Figure, with Youth and Health, and all his five Senses in perfection, Madam, and to all this, the most passionate Lover—

O fie for shame, hold your Tongue, A passionate Lover, and five Senses in perfection! when you are as Mad as Valentine, I'll believe you love me, and the maddest shall take me.

It is enough. Ha! Who's here?

O Lord, her coming will spoil all.

No, no, Madam, he won't know her, if he shou'd, I can perswade him.

Scandal, who are all these? Foreigners? If they are, I'll tell you what I think—get away all the Company but Angelica, that I may discover my design to her.

I will,—I have discover'd something of Tattle, that is of a piece with Mrs. Frail. He Courts Angelica, if we cou'd contrive to couple 'em together—Heark'ee—

He won't know you, Cousin, he knows no body.

But he knows more than any body,—Oh Neice, he knows things past and to come, and all the profound Secrets of Time.

Look you, Mr. Foresight, It is not my way to make many words of Matters, and so I shan't say much,—But in short, de'e see, I will hold you a Hundred Pound now, that I know more Secrets than he.

How! I cannot Read that knowledge in your Face, Mr. Tattle—Pray, what do you know?

Why de'e think I'll tell you, Sir! Read it in my Face? No, Sir, 'tis written in my Heart. And safer there, Sir, than Letters writ in Juice of Lemon, for no Fire can fetch it out. I am no blab, Sir.

Acquaint Ieremy with it, he may easily bring it about,—They are welcome, and I'll tell 'em so my self.

What do you look strange upon me?—Then I must be plain.

I am Truth, and hate an Old Acquaintance with a new Face.

Do you know me, Valentine?

You▪ Who are you? No, I hope not.

I am Iack Tattle, your Friend.

My Friend, what to do? I am no Married Man, and thou can'st not lie with my Wife? I am very poor, and thou can'st not borrow Money of me; Then what Employment have I for a Friend.

Hah! A good open Speaker, and not to be trusted with a Secret.

Do you know me, Valentine?

Oh very well.

Who am I?

You're a Woman—One to whom Heav'n gave Beauty, when it grafted Roses on a Briar. You are the reflection of Heav'n in a Pond, and he that leaps at you is sunk. You are all white, a sheet of lovely spotless Paper, when you first are Born; but you are to be scrawl'd and blotted by every Goose's Quill. I know you; for I lov'd a Woman, and lov'd her so long, that I found out a strange thing: I found out what a Woman was good for.

Aye, prithee, what's that?

Why to keep a Secret.

O Lord!

O exceeding good to keep a Secret: For tho' she should tell, yet she is not to be believ'd.

Hah! good again, faith.

I would have Musick—Sing me the Song that I like—

No more, for I am melancholly.

I'll do't, Sir.

Mr. Foresight, we had best leave him. He may grow outragious, and do mischief.

I will be directed by you.

You'll meet, Madam;—I'll take care every thing shall be ready.

Thou shalt do what thou wilt, have what thou wilt, in short, I will deny thee nothing.

Madam, shall I wait upon you?

Pox on't, there's no coming off, now she has said that—Madam, will you do me the Honour?

Mr. Tattle might have us'd less Ceremony.

Ieremy, follow Tattle.

Mr. Scandal, I only stay till my Maid comes, and because I had a Mind to be rid of Mr. Tattle.

Madam, I am very glad that I overheard a better Reason, which you gave to Mr. Tattle; for his impertinence forc'd you to acknowledge a Kindness for Valentine, which you deny'd to all his Sufferings and my Sollicitations. So I'll leave him to make use of the Discovery; and your Ladyship to the free Confession of your Inclinations.

Oli Heavens! You wont leave me alone with a Madman?

No, Madam; I only leave a Madman to his Remedy.

Madam, you need not be very much afraid, for I fancy I begin to come to my self.

Aye, but if I don't fit you, I'll be hang'd.

You see what disguises Love makes us put on; Gods have been in counterfeited Shapes for the same Reason; and the Divine Part of me, my Mind, has worn this Masque of Madness, and this motly Livery, only as the Slave of Love, and Menial Creature of your Beauty.

Mercy on me, how he talks! poor Valentine!

Nay faith, now let us understand one another, Hypocrisie apart,—The Comedy draws toward an end, and let us think of leaving acting, and be our selves; and since you have lov'd me, you must own I have at length deserv'd you shou'd confess it.

I would I had lov'd you—for Heaven knows I pitie you; and could I have foreseen the sad Effects, I wou'd have striven; but that's too late.

What sad Effects?—What's too late? my seeming Madness has deceiv'd my Father, and procur'd me time to think of means to reconcile me to him; and preserve the right of my Inheritance to his Estate; which otherwise by Articles, I must this Morning have resign'd: And this I had inform'd you of to Day, but you were gone, before I knew you had been here.

How! I thought your love of me had caus'd this Transport in your Soul; which, it seems, you only counterfeited; for by, mercinary Ends and sordid Interest.

Nay, now you do me Wrong; for if any Interest was considered, it was yours; since I thought I wanted more than Love, to make me worthy of you.

Then you thought me mercenary—But how am I deluded by this Interval of Sense, to reason with a Madman?

Oh, 'tis barbarous to misunderstand me longer.

Oh here's a reasonable Creature—sure he will not have the Impudence to persevere—Come, Ieremy, acknowledge your Trick, and confess your Master's Madness counterfeit.

Counterfeit, Madam! I'll maintain him to be as absolutely and substantially Mad, as any Freeholder in Bethlehem; Nay, he's as Mad as any Projector, Fanatick, Chymist, Lover, or Poet in Europe.

Sirrah, you lie; I am not Mad.

Ha, ha, ha, you see he denies it.

O Lord, Madam, did you ever know any Madman Mad enough to own it?

Sot, can't you apprehend?

Why he talk'd very sensibly just now.

Yes, Madam; He has Intervals: But you see he begins to look wild again now.

Why you Thick-Skull'd Rascal, I tell you the Farce is done, and I will be Mad no longer.

Ha, ha, ha, is he mad, or no, Ieremy?

Partly I think—for he does not know his Mind Two Hours—I'm sure I left him just now, in a Humour to be mad: And I think I have not found him very quiet at this present. Who's there?

I did not think you had Apprehension enough to be exceptious: But Madmen shew themselves most, by over pretending to a sound Understanding; as Drunken men do by over acting Sobriety; I was half inclining to believe you, till I accidentally touch'd upon your tender Part: But now you have restor'd me to my former Opinion and Compassion.

Sir, your Father has sent to know if you are any better yet—Will you please to be Mad, Sir, or how?

Stupidity! You know the Penalty of all I'm worth must pay for the Confession of my Senses; I'm Mad, and will be Mad to every Body but this Lady.

So—Just the very backside of Truth,—But lying is a Figure in Speech, that interlards the greatest part of my Conversation—Madam, your Ladyships Woman.

Well, have you been there?—Come hither.

Yes, Madam, Sir Sampson will wait upon you presently.

You are not leaving me in this Uncertainty?

Wou'd any thing, but a Madman complain of Uncertainty? Uncertainty and Expectation are the Joys of Life. Security is an insipid thing, and the overtaking and possessing of a Wish, discovers the Folly of the Chase. Never let us know one another better; for the Pleasure of a Masquerade is done, when we come to shew Faces; But I'll tell you two things before I leave you; I am not the Fool you take me for; and you are Mad and don't know it.

From a Riddle, you can expect nothing but a Riddle. There's my Instruction, and the Moral of my Lesson.

What, is the Lady gone again, Sir? I hope you understood one another before she went.

Understood! She is harder to be understood than a Piece of AEgyptian Antiquity, or an Irish Manuscript; you may pore till you spoil your Eyes, and not improve your Knowledge.

I have heard 'em say, Sir, they read hard Hebrew Books backwards; may be you begin to read at the wrong End.

they say so of a Witches Pray'r, and Dreams and Dutch Almanacks are to be understood by contraries. But there's Regularity and Method in that; she is a Medal without a Reverse or Inscription; for Indifference has both sides alike. Yet while she does not seem to hate me, I will pursue her, and know her if it be possible, in spight of the Opinion of my Satirical Friend, Scandal, who says, That Women are like Tricks by slight of Hand, Which, to admire, we should not understand.

WHERE is Sir Sampson? Did you not tell me, he would be here before me?

He's at the great Glass in the Dining-Room, Madam, setting his Cravat and Wig.

How! I'm glad on't—If he has a mind I should like him, It's a sign he likes me; and that's more than half my Design.

I hear him, Madam.

Leave me, and d'ye hear, if Valentine shou'd come, or send, I am not to be spoken with.

I have not been honour'd with the Commands of a fair Lady, a great while—Odd, Madam, you have reviv'd me—Not since I was Five and Thirty.

Why you have no great reason to complain, Sir Sampson, that is not long ago.

Zooks, but it is, Madam, a very great while; to a Man that admires a fine Woman, as much as I do.

You're an absolute Courtier, Sir Sampson.

Not at all, Madam: Odsbud you wrong me; I am not so old neither, to be a bare Courtier, only a Man of Words. Odd, I have warm Blood about me yet, I can serve a Lady any way—Come, come, let me tell you, you Women think a Man old too soon, faith and troth you do—Come, don't despise Fifty; odd Fifty, in a hale Constitution, is no such contemptible Age.

Fifty a contemptible Age! Not at all, a very fashionable Age I think—I assure you I know very considerable Beaus, that set a good Face upon Fifty, Fifty! I have seen Fifty in a side Box by Candle-light, out-blossom Five and Twenty.

O Pox, outsides, outsides; a pize take 'em, meer outsides. Hang your side-Box Beaus; no, I'm none of those, none of your forc'd Trees, that pretend to Blossom in the Fall; and Bud when they should bring forth Fruit. I am of a long liv'd Race, and inherit Vigour, none of my Family married till Fifty; yet they begot Sons and Daughters till Fourscore. I am of your Patriarchs, I, a Branch of one of your Antideluvian Families, Fellows, that the Flood could not wash away. Well, Madam, what are your Commands? Has any young Rogue affronted you, and shall I cut his Throat? or—

No, Sir▪ Sampson, I have no Quarrel upon my Hands—I have more Occasion for your Conduct than your Courage at this time. To tell you the Truth, I'm weary of living single, and want a Husband.

Odsbud, and 'tis pity you should—Odd, wou'd she wou'd like me, then I shou'd hamper my young Rogues: Odd, wou'd she wou'd; faith and troth she's devilish Handsom.

Madam, you deserve a good Husband, and 'twere pity you shou'd be thrown away upon any of these young idle Rogues about the Town. Odd, there's ne're a young Fellow worth hanging—that is a very young Fellow—Pize on 'em, they never think beforehand of any thing;—And if they commit Matrimony, 'tis as they commit Murder; out of a Frolick: And are ready to hang themselves, or to be hang'd by the Law, the next Morning.—Odso, have a care, Madam.

Therefore I ask your Advice, Sir Sampson: I have Fortune enough to make any Man easie that I can like; If there were such a thing as a young agreeable Man, with a reasonable Stock of good Nature and Sense—For I would neither have an absolute Wit, nor a Fool.

Odd, you are hard to please, Madam; to find a young Fellow that is neither a Wit in his own Eye, nor a Fool in the Eye of the World, is a very hard Task. But, faith and troth you speak very discreetly; For I hate both a Wit and a Fool.

She that marries a Fool, Sir Sampson, commits the Reputation of her Honesty or Understanding to the Censure of the World: And she that marries a very Witty Man, submits both to the Severity and insolent Conduct of her Husband. I should like a Man of Wit for a Lover, because I would have such an one in my Power; but I would no more be his Wife, than his Enemy. For his Malice is not a more terrible Consequence of his Aversion, than his Jealousie is of his Love.

None of old Foresight's Sybills ever utter'd such a Truth. Odsbud, you have wone my Heart: I hate a Wit; I had a Son that was spoil'd among 'em; a good hopeful Lad, till he learn'd to be a Wit—And might have risen in the State—But, a pox on't, his Wit run him out of his Money, and now his Poverty has run him out of his Wits.

Sir Sampson, as your Friend, I must tell you, you are very much abus'd in that Matter; He's no more Mad than you are.

How, Madam! Wou'd I cou'd prove it.

I can tell you how that may be done—But it is a thing that wou'd make me appear to be too much concern'd in your Affairs.

Odsbud I believe she likes me.—

—Ah, Madam, all my Affairs are scarce worthy to be laid at your Feet; And I wish, Madam, they stood in a better Posture, that I might make a more becoming Offer to a Lady of your incomparable Beauty and Merit.—If I had Peru in one Hand, and Mexico in t'other, and the Eastern Empire under my Feet; it would make me only a more glorious Victim to be offer'd at the Shrine of your Beauty.

Bless me, Sir Sampson, what's the matter?

Odd, Madam, I love you—And if you wou'd take my Advice in a Husband—

Hold, hold, Sir Sampson. I ask'd your Advice for a Husband, and you are giving me your Consent—I was indeed thinking to propose something like it in a Jest, to satisfie you about Valentine: For if a Match were seemingly carried on, between you and me, it would oblige him to throw off his Disguise of Madness, in Apprehension of losing me: For you know he has long pretended a Passion for me.

O fie, Sir Sampson, what would the World say?

Say, they would say, you were a wise Woman, and I a happy Man. Odd, Madam, I'll love you as long as I live; and leave you a good Jointure when I die.

Aye; But that is not in your Power, Sir Sampson; for when Valentine confesses himself in his Senses; he must make over his Inheritance to his younger Brother.

Odd, you're cunning, a wary Baggage! Faith and Troth I like you the better—But, I warrant you, I have a Proviso in the Obligation in favour of my self—Body o'me, I have a Trick to turn the Settlement upon the Issue Male of our Two Bodies begotten. Odsbud, let us find Children, and I'll find an Estate.

Will you? well, do you find the Estate, and leave the t'other to me—

O Rogue! But I'll trust you. And will you consent? Is it a Match then?

Let me consult my Lawyer concerning this Obligation; and if I find what you propose practicable; I'll give you my Answer.

With all my Heart;—Come in with me, and I'll lend you the Bond,—You shall consult your Lawyer, and I'll consult a Parson; Odzooks I'm a Young Man: Odzooks I'm a young Man, and I'll make it appear—Odd, you're devilish Handsom; Faith and Troth, you're very Handsom, and I'm very Young, and very Lusty—Odsbud, Hussy, you know how to chuse, and so do I;—Odd, I think we are very well met;—Give me your Hand, Odd let me kiss it; 'tis as warm and as soft—as what?—Odd, as t'other Hand—give me t'other Hand, and I'll mumble 'em, and kiss 'em till they melt in my Mouth.

Hold, Sir Sampson—You're profuse of your Vigour before your time: You'll spend your Estate before you come to it.

No, no, only give you a Rent-roll of my Possessions—Ah! Baggage—I warrant you; for little Sampson: Odd, Sampson's a very good Name for an able Fellow: Your Sampsons were strong Dogs from the Beginning.

Have a care, and don't over-act your Part—If you remember, the strongest Sampson of your Name, pull'd an old House over his Head at last.

Say you so, Hussy?—Come lets go then; Odd, I long to be pulling down too, come away—Odso, here's some body coming.

Is not that she, gone out just now?

Aye, Sir, she's just going to the Place of appointment. Ah Sir, if you are not very faithful and close in this Business, you'll certainly be the Death of a Person that has a most extraordinary Passion for your Honour's Service.

Aye, who's that?

Even my unworthy self, Sir—Sir, I have had an Appetite to be fed with your Commands a great while;—And now, Sir, my former Master, having much troubled the Fountain of his Understanding; it is a very plausible Occasion for me to quench my Thirst at the Spring of your Bounty—I thought I could not recommend my self better to you, Sir, than by the delivery of a great Beauty and Fortune into your Arms, whom I have heard you Sigh for.

I'll make thy Fortune; say no more—Thou art a pretty Fellow, and canst carry a Message to a Lady, in a pretty soft kind of Phrase, and with a good perswading Accent.

Sir, I have the Seeds of Rhetorick and Oratory in my Head—I have been at Cambridge.

Ay; 'tis well enough for a Servant to be bred at an University: But the Education is a little too pedantick for a Gentleman. I hope you are secret in your Nature, private, close, ha?

O Sir, for that Sir, 'tis my chief Talent; I'm as secret as the Head of Nilus.

Aye? Who's he, tho? A Privy Counsellor?

O Ignorance!

A cunning AEgyptian, Sir, that with his Arms would over-run the Country, yet no body could ever find out his Head-Quarters.

Close Dog! A good Whoremaster, I warrant him—the time draws nigh, Ieremy. Angelica will be veil'd like a Nun; and I must be hooded like a Friar; ha, Ieremy?

Aye, Sir, hooded like a Hawk, to seize at first sight upon the Quarry. It is the Whim of my Master's Madness to be so dress'd; and she is so in Love with him, she'll comply with any thing to please him. Poor Lady, I'm sure she'll have reason to pray for me, when she finds what a happy Exchange she has made, between a Madman and so Accomplish'd a Gentleman.

Ay faith, so she will, Ieremy: You're a good Friend to her, poor Creature—I swear I do it hardly so much in consideration of my self, as Compassion to her.

'Tis an Act of Charity, Sir, to save a fine Woman with Thirty Thousand Pound, from throwing her self away.

So 'tis, faith—I might have sav'd several others in my time; but I Gad I could never find in my Heart to Marry any body before.

Well, Sir, I'll go and tell her my Master's coming; and meet you in half a quarter of an hour, with your Disguise, at your own Lodgings. You must talk a little madly, she won't distinguish the Tone of your Voice.

No, no, let me alone for a Counterfeit;—I'll be ready for you.

O Mr. Tattle, are you here! I'm glad I have found you; I have been looking up and down for you like any thing, till I'm as tired as any thing in the World.

O Pox, how shall I get rid of this foolish Girl?

O I have pure News, I can tell you pure News—I must not marry the Seaman now—my Father says so. Why won't you be my Husband? You say you love me, and you won't be my Husband. And I know you may be my Husband now if you please.

O fie, Miss: Who told you so, Child?

O fie, Miss, why did you do so? and who told you so, Child?

Who? Why you did; did not you?

O Pox, that was Yesterday, Miss, that was a great while ago, Child. I have been a sleep since; slept a whole Night, and did not so much as dream of the matter.

Pshaw, O but I dream't that it was so tho.

Ay, but your Father will tell you that Dreams come by Contraries, Child—O fie; what, we must not love one another now—Pshaw, that would be a foolish thing indeed——Fie, fie, you're a Woman now, and must think of a new Man every Morning, and forget him every Night——No, no, to marry, is to be a Child again, and play with the same Rattle always: O fie, marrying is a paw thing.

Well, but don't you love me as well as you did last Night then?

No, no, Child, you would not have me.

No? Yes but I would tho.

Pshaw, but I tell you, you would not—You forget you're a Woman, and don't know your own mind.

But here's my Father, and he knows my Mind.

O, Mr. Tattle, your Servant, you are a close Man; but methinks your Love to my Daughter was a Secret I might have been trusted with,—Or had you a mind to try if I could discover it by my Art—hum, ha! I think there is something in your Physiognomy, that has a resemblance of her; and the Girl is like me.

And so you wou'd infer, that you and I are alike—what do's the Old Prig mean? I'll banter him, and laugh at him, and leave him

I fancy you have a wrong Notion of Faces.

How? What? A wrong Notion! How so?

In the way of Art: I have some taking Features, not obvious to Vulgar Eyes; that are Indications of a sudden turn of good Fortune, in the Lottery of Wives; and promise a great▪ Beauty and great Fortune reserved alone for me, by a private Intriegue of Destiny, kept secret from the piercing Eye of Perspicuity; from all Astologers, and the Stars themselves.

How! I will make it appear that what you say is impossible.

Sir, I beg your Pardon, I'm in haste—

For what?

To be married, Sir, married.

Aye, but pray take me along with you, Sir—

No, Sir; 'tis to be done Privately—I never make Confidents.

Well; but my Consent I mean—You won't marry my Daughter without my Consent?

Who I, Sir? I'm an absolute Stranger to you and your Daughter, Sir.

Hey day! What time of the Moon is this?

Very true, Sir, and desire to continue so. I have no more love for your Daughter, than I have likeness of you; and I have a Secret in my Heart, which you wou'd be glad to know, and shan't know; and yet you shall know it too, and be sorry for't afterwards. I'd have you to know, Sir, that I am as knowing as the Stars, and as secret as the Night.—And I'm going to be Married just now, yet did not know of it half an Hour ago; and the Lady stays for me, and does not know of it yet—There's a Mystery for you,—I know you love to untie Difficulties—Or if you can't solve this; stay here a Quarter of an Hour, and I'll come and explain it to you.

O Father, why will you let him go? Won't you make him be my Husband?

Mercy on us, what do these Lunacies portend? Alas! he's Mad, Child, stark Wild.

What, and must not I have e're a Husband then? What, must I go to Bed to Nurse again, and be a Child as long as she's an Old Woman? Indeed but I won't: For now my Mind is set upon a Man, I will have a Man some way or other. Oh! methinks I'm sick when I think of a Man▪; and if I can't have one, I wou'd go to sleep all my Life: For when I'm awake, it makes me wish and long, and I don't know for what—And I'd rather be always a sleeping, than sick with thinking.

A Fiddle of a Rod, I'll have a Husband; and if you won't get me one, I'll get one for my self: I'll marry our Robbin the Butler, he says he loves me, and he's a Handsome Man, and shall be my Husband: I warrant he'll be my Husband and thank me too, for he told me so.

Did he so—I'll dispatch him for't presently; Rogue! Oh, Nurse, come hither.

What is your Worship's Pleasure?

Here, take your young Mistress, and lock her up presently, till farther Orders from me—not a Word Hussy—Do what I bid you, no Reply, away. And bid Robin make ready to give an Account of his Plate and Linnen, d'ee hear, be gone when I bid you.

What's the Matter, Husband?

'Tis not convenient to tell you now—Mr. Scandal, Heav'n keep us all in our Senses—I fear there is a contagious Frenzy abroad. How does Valentine?

O I hope he will do well again—I have a Message from him to your Niece Angelica.

I think she has not return'd, since she went abroad with Sir Sampson.

Here's Mr. Benjamin, he can tell us if his Father become Home.

Who, Father? ay, he's come home with a Vengeance.

Why, What's the Matter?

Matter! Why he's Mad.

Mercy on us, I was afraid of this.

And there's the handsome young Woman, she, as they say, Brother Val. went mad for, she's mad too, I think.

O my poor Niece, my poor Niece, is she gone too? Well, I shall run mad next.

Nay, I'll give you leave to guess—I'll undertake to make a Voyage to Antegoa—No, hold, I mayn't say so neither—But I'll sail as far as Ligorn, and back again, before you shall guess at the matter, and do nothing else; Mess you may take in all the Points of the Compass, and not hit Right.

Your Experiment will take up a little too much time.

Why then I'll tell you, There's a new wedding upon the Stocks; and they two are a going to be married to rights.

Who?

Why Father and—the Young Woman. I can't hit of her Name.

Angelica?

Aye, the same.

Sir Sampson and Angelica, impossible!

That may be—but I'm sure it is as I tell you.

'S'death it's a Jest. I can't believe it.

Look you, Friend, it's nothing to me, whether you believe it or no. What I say is true; d'ee see, they are married, or just going to be married, I know not which.

Well, but they are not Mad, that is, not Lunatick?

I don't know what you may call Madness—But she's mad for a Husband, and he's Horn-mad, I think, or they'd ne're make a Match together—Here they come.

Where is this old Soothsayer? This Uncle of mine elect? a ha, Old Foresight, Uncle Foresight, wish me Joy Uncle Foresight, double Joy, both as Uncle and Astrologer; here's a Conjunction that was not foretold in all your Ephemeris—The brightest Star in the blew Firmament—is shot from above, in a Jelly of Love, and so forth; and I'm Lord of the Ascendant. Odd, you're an old Fellow, Foresight; Uncle I mean, a very old Fellow, Uncle Foresight; and yet you shall live to dance at my Wedding; faith and troth you shall. Odd we'll have the Musick of the Spheres for thee, old Lilly, that we will, and thou shalt lead up a Dance in via Lactea.

I'm Thunder-strook! You are not married to my Niece?

Not absolutely married, Uncle; but very near it, within a Kiss of the matter, as you see.

'Tis very true indeed, Uncle; I hope you'll be my Father, and give me.

That he shall, or I'll burn his Globes—Body o'me, he shall be thy Father, I'll make him thy Father, and thou shalt make me a Father, and I'll make thee a Mother, and we'll beget Sons and Daughters enough to put the Weekly Bills out of Countenance.

Death and Hell! Where's Valentine?

This is so surprising—

How! What does my Aunt say? Surprizing, Aunt? Not at all, for a young Couple to make a Match in Winter? Not at all—It's a Plot to undermine Cold Weather; and destroy that Usurper of a Bed call'd a Warming-Pan.

I'm glad to hear you have so much Fire in you, Sir Sampson.

Mess, I fear his Fire's little better than Tinder; may hap it will only serve to light up a Match for some body else. The Young Woman's a Handsom Young Woman, I can't deny it: But, Father, if I might be your Pilot in this Case, you should not marry her. It's just the same thing, as if so be you should sail so far as the Streights without Provision.

Who gave you Authority to speak, Sirrah? To your Element, Fish, be mute, Fish, and to Sea, rule your Helm, Sirrah, don't direct me.

Well, well, take you care of your own Helm, or you mayn't keep your own Vessel steddy.

Why you impudent Tarpaulin! Sirrah, do you bring your Fore-castle Jests upon your Father? But I shall be even with you, I won't give you a Groat. Mr. Buckram is the Conveyance so worded, that nothing can possibly descend to this Scoundrel? I would not so much as have him have the Prospect of an Estate; tho' there were no way to come to it, but by the North-East Passage.

Lawyer, I believe there's many a Cranny and Leak unstopt in your Conscience—If so be that one had a Pump to your Bosom, I believe we shou'd discover a foul Hold. They say a Witch will sail in a Sieve—But I believe the Devil wou'd not venture aboard o' your Conscience. And that's for you.

Hold your Tongue, Sirrah. How now, who's there?

O, Sister, the most unlucky Accident!

What's the Matter?

O, the Two most unforunate poor Creatures in the World we are.

Bless us! How so?

Ah Mr. Tattle and I, poor Mr. Tattle and I are—I can't speak it out.

Nor I—But poor Mrs. Frail and I are—

Married.

Married! How?

Suddainly—before we knew where we were—that Villain Ieremy, by the help of Disguises, trickt us into one another.

Why, you told me just now, you went hence in haste to be married.

But I believe Mr. Tattle meant the Favour to me, I thank him.

I did, as I hope to be sav'd, Madam, my Intentions were good—But this is the most cruel thing, to marry one does not know how, nor why, nor wherefore—The Devil take me if ever I was so much concern'd at any thing in my Life.

'Tis very unhappy, if you don't care for one another.

The least in the World—That is for my Part, I speak for my self. Gad, I never had the least thought of serious Kindness—I never lik'd any body less in my Life. Poor Woman! Gad I'm sorry for her too; for I have no reason to hate her neither; but I believe I shall lead her a damn'd sort of a Life.

He's better than no Husband at all—tho he's a Coxcomb.

Aye, aye, it's well it's no worse—Nay, for my part I always despised Mr. Tattle of all things; nothing but his being my Husband could have made me like him less.

Look you there, I thought as much—pox on't, I wish we could keep it secret, why I don't believe any of this Company wou'd speak of it.

But, my Dear, that's impossible; the Parson and that Rogue Ieremy will publish it.

Aye, my Dear, so they will as you say.

O you'll agree very well in a little time; Custom will make it easie to you.

Easie! Pox on't, I don't believe I shall sleep to Night.

Sleep Quotha! No, why you would not sleep o' your Wedding Night? I'm an older Fellow than you, and don't mean to sleep.

Why there's another Match now, as thof a couple of Privateers were looking for a Prize, and should fall foul of one another. I'm sorry for the Young Man with all my Heart. Look you, Friend, if I may advise you, when she's going, for that you must expect, I have Experience of her, when she's going, let her go. For no Matrimony is tough enough to hold her, and if she can't drag her Anchor along with her, she'll break her Cable, I can tell you that. Who's here? the Madman?

No; here's the Fool; and if occasion be, I'll give it under my hand.

How now?

Sir, I'm come to acknowledge my Errors, and ask your Pardon.

What, have you found your Senses at last then? In good time, Sir.

You were abus'd, Sir, I never was Distracted.

No really, Sir; I'm his Witness, it was all Counterfeit.

I thought I had Reasons—But it was a poor Contrivance, the Effect has shewn it such.

Contrivance, what to cheat me? to cheat your Father! Sirrah, could you hope to prosper?

Indeed, I thought, Sir, when the Father endeavoured to undo the Son, it was a reasonable return of Nature.

Very good, Sir—Mr. Buckram, are you ready?—Come, Sir, will you sign and seal?

If you please, Sir; but first I would ask this Lady one Question.

Sir, you must ask my leave first; that Lady, No, Sir; you shall ask that Lady no Questions, till you have ask'd her Blessing, Sir; that Lady is to be my Wife.

I have heard as much, Sir; but I wou'd have it from her own Mouth.

That's as much as to say, I lie, Sir, and you don't believe what I say.

Pardon me, Sir. But I reflect that I very lately counterfeited Madness; I don't know but the Frolick may go round.

Come, Chuck, satisfie him, answer him;—Come, come, Mr. Buckram, the Pen and Ink.

Here it is, Sir, with the Deed, all is ready.

'Tis true, you have a great while pretended Love to me; nay, what if you were sincere? still you must pardon me, if I think my own Inclinations have a better Right to dispose of my Person, than yours.

Are you answer'd now, Sir?

Yes, Sir.

Where's your Plot, Sir? and your Contrivance now, Sir? Will you sign, Sir? Come, will you sign and seal?

With all my Heart, Sir.

'S'death, you are not mad indeed, to ruine your self?

I have been disappointed of my only Hope; and he that loses hope may part with any thing. I never valu'd Fortune, but as it was subservient to my Pleasure; and my only Pleasure was to please this Lady: I have made many vain Attempts, and find at last, that nothing but my Ruine can effect it: Which, for that Reason, I will sign to—Give me the Paper.

Generous Valentine!

Here is the Deed, Sir.

But where is the Bond, by which I am oblig'd to sign this?

Sir Sampson you have it.

No, I have it; and I'll use it, as I would every thing that is an Enemy to Valentine.

How now!

Ha!

Had I the World to give you, it cou'd not make me worthy of so generous and faithful a Passion: Here's my Hand, my Heart was always yours, and struggl'd very hard to make this utmost Tryal of your Virtue.

Between Pleasure and Amazement, I am lost—But on my Knees I take the Blessing.

Oons, what is the meaning of this?

Mess, here's the Wind chang'd again. Father, you and I may make a Voyage together now.

Well, Sir Sampson, since I have plaid you a Trick, I'll advise you, how you may avoid such another. Learn to be a good Father, or you'll never get a second Wife. I always lov'd your Son, and hated your unforgiving Nature. I was resolv'd to try him to the utmost; I have try'd you too, and know you both. You have not more Faults than he has Virtues; and 'tis hardly more Pleasure to me, that I can make him and my self happy, than that I can punish you.

If my happiness cou'd receive Addition, this Kind surprize would make it double.

Oons you're a Crocodile.

Really, Sir Sampson, this is a sudden Eclipse—

You're an illiterate Fool, and I'm another, and the Stars are Lyars; and if I had Breath enough, I'd curse them and you, my self and every Body—Oons, Cully'd, Bubbl'd, Jilted Woman-bobb'd at last—I have not Patience.

If the Gentleman is in this disorder for want of a Wife, I can spare him mine. Oh are you there, Sir? I'm indebted to you for my Happiness.

Tattle, I thank you, you would have interposed between me and Heav'n; but Providence laid Purgatory in your way—You have but Justice.

I hear the Fiddles that Sir Sampson provided for his own Wedding; methinks 'tis pity they should not be employ'd when the Match is so much mended. Valentine, tho' it be Morning, we may have a Dance.

Any thing, my Friend, every thing that looks like Joy and Transport.

Call 'em, Ieremy.

I have done dissembling now, Valentine; and if that Coldness which I have always worn before you, should turn to an extream Fondness, you must not suspect it.

I'll prevent that suspicion—For I intend to doat on at that immoderate rate, that your Fondness shall never distinguish it self enough, to be taken notice of. If ever you seem to love too much, it must be only when I can't love enough.

Have a care of large Promises; You know you are apt to run more in Debt than you are able pay.

Therefore I yield my Body as your Prisoner, and make your best on't.

The Musick stays for you.

Well, Madam, You have done Exemplary Justice, in punishing an inhumane Father, and rewarding a Faithful Lover: But there is a Third good Work, which I, in particular, must thank you for; I was an Infidel to your Sex; and you have converted me—For now I am convinc'd that all Women are not like Fortune, blind in bestowing Favours, either on those who do not merit, or who do not want 'em.

'Tis an unreasonable Accusation, that you lay upon our Sex: You tax us with Injustice, only to cover your own want of Merit. You would all have the Reward of Love; but few have the Constancy to stay till it becomes your due. Men are generally. Hypocrites and Infidels, they pretend to Worship, but have neither Zeal nor Faith: How few, like Valentine, would persevere even unto Martyrdom, and sacrifice their Interest to their Constancy! In admiring me, you misplace the Novelty. The Miracle to Day is, that we find A Lover true: Not that a Woman's Kind.